Sex With My Father-in-Law: The DIL and the Cuckold Husband
The Mall And The Investment
The mall was cold after the heat of the car.
Simran walked first. The red dress did the talking before she opened her mouth. People looked. Some looked away. Debashish walked half a step behind her with his jaw set, playing the role he had accepted at the pump: the man who paid, the man who followed, the man who had already seen too much and had still said yes.
“I need two things,” she said. “A dress for a dinner I do not have yet. And something under it.”
“Lead,” he said.
His voice was steady. His eyes were not.
The first shop was bright and full of mirrors.
Simran took four dresses into the fitting room. All of them were honest in the same way the red one was honest. Short. Tight. Necklines that did not pretend to be shy.
She came out in a black one first.
It ended high on her thighs. The top held her breasts like a promise. She turned once in front of him, slow, as if she only wanted a father’s opinion.
“Well?”
Debashish stood with his hands in his pockets. A dangerous place for his hands today.
“It is short.”
“That is not an opinion. That is a measurement.”
“It fits.” He swallowed. “It fits too well. If you sit, the room will learn more than it paid for.”
She smiled and went back in.
The second dress was the colour of wine. Lower in front. When she walked out, her cleavage was a deep, clean cut. A sales girl said beautiful. Debashish said nothing until Simran raised her eyebrows.
“Papa.”
“My voice is fine,” he said, and it was not. It had gone low and careful. “Wear that and even a quiet dinner will become a meeting.”
“You like meetings.”
“I like knowing the agenda.”
She turned. The cloth clung to her ass the way the kitchen dress had. His gaze dropped and climbed again, embarrassed, hungry, trapped in a public place.
The third dress was worse. White. Thin. In the shop light her nipples made two small facts against the fabric. She saw him see them. She asked anyway.
“Too much?”
He looked at a rack of belts as if belts could save him.
“Yes.” Then, honest, “No. It is… you. It is a lot of you.”
She laughed under her breath and chose the wine dress and a second black one. She did not choose the white. She left it hanging where his mind could keep it.
She led him to the lingerie floor as if it were the next ordinary stop.
It was not ordinary.
The shop was quiet and expensive. Soft lamps. Glass tables. Rails of lace so thin they looked like ideas, not clothes. Red. Black. Nude. Things with straps that had no job except to be removed.
Debashish stopped at the door.
Simran did not.
“Come,” she said. “You are the provider today.”
He followed her in. A tall bald man in a high-end lingerie store, standing beside his son’s wife in a tight red dress. A woman at the counter glanced at them and then became very interested in folding boxes.
Simran browsed with calm fingers.
Sheer red. Deep cups. Little triangles that would not hide the dark of a nipple. She held a bra against her chest, over the dress, and checked the mirror.
“This one lifts more,” she said.
He made a sound that was not a word.
She picked up a hanger of panties. Red lace. Almost nothing. She turned it so the shop light went through the pattern.
Then she found the one she had come for.
Tiny. Red. Open at the centre. A crotchless slip of lace that was not for sitting in an office.
She held it up between them.
“Do you think this red matches the dress?” she asked. Innocent eyes. A mouth that was not innocent. “Or is it too much?”
Debashish looked around. A couple near the socks. A girl with a basket. No one close enough to hear if he kept his voice down. Still he swallowed as if the air had bones.
“I… suppose that depends on who is going to be seeing it.”
Simran batted her lashes.
“Well, you are the one paying for it, Papa. Shouldn’t you approve of your investments?”
The word investments sat in the scented air like a hand on a belt.
His neck went red again. Alpha pride and public shame shared the same face.
“An investment,” he said, very quietly, “should have a return. That piece has no fabric where fabric usually works. The return is… not for a mall.”
“So you approve the colour.”
“I approve that it matches.” He could not look at the open lace and also look at her face, so he looked at her mouth. “I do not approve of discussing the hole in it under these lights.”
“You already looked at the hole.”
“You held it up.”
“You still looked.”
A dry breath. Almost a laugh. “My son is lucky. He has no idea how lucky. If he did, he would not stay late for meetings.”
Simran hung the crotchless red over her wrist and added a matching bra, cups so thin they were only a frame for what he had already stared at in the kitchen.
“Then help me invest,” she said.
They walked to the counter.
She acted completely normal. Smile for the cashier. Yes, a bag please. No, no gift wrap. As if she were buying socks.
The cashier scanned the bra. Scanned the tiny open panties. The beep sounded too loud.
Debashish took out his card.
For a second his thick fingers paused over the machine, as if even plastic could judge him. Then he paid. The slip printed. His name. His money. Her lace.
“Thank you, Papa,” Simran said, bright and public.
“Let us go,” he said.
He carried every bag.
Outside, the mall doors breathed out cold air and then the city took them back.
Debashish walked to the SUV with the bags in one hand. He knew the weight of them. He knew the exact size of what was inside the smallest bag. Two thin pieces of red lace. One of them with nothing in the middle. He knew those pieces would live under a dress. He knew they might live under this dress, tonight, in his house, two floors above his own room.
Simran sat in the passenger seat and set her hands on her knees.
“Good shopping,” she said.
He started the car. His jaw worked once.
“That was not shopping.”
“What was it?”
He stared at the road the way he had stared at the newspaper.
“An investment,” he said. “And I am driving it home.”
The bags sat on the back seat.
Red lace. His card. Her smile.
The house was waiting, and so was the night, and so was the fact that he now knew what she could wear when the dress came off.
- Part 1: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 1
- Part 2: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 2
- Part 3: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 3
- Part 4: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 4
- Part 5: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 5
- Part 6: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 8
- Part 7: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 7
- Part 8: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 6
- Part 9: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 10
- Part 10: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 11